One morning when Julius got up, he could find only one of his slippers.
After a long search the other was found under the edge of the
washing-stand, but in a decidedly dilapidated condition.
It had evidently been gnawed.
We gravely discussed the misfortune of having our premises invaded by
rats, and when on the following morning one of my overshoes was likewise
discovered to be a wreck, matters began to look serious, and Julius
hastened to procure a trap.
That night I was awakened from my first doze by a sound of gnawing, and
on hastily lighting a candle, Bruno was seen with a conscious,
shamefaced expression--just like a big boy who is caught enjoying a
nursery-bottle--chewing a shoe!
It was quite a revelation of dog-character to find such a big fellow
chewing up things, but we were relieved on the score of rats. Bruno was
furnished with an old shoe for his very own on which to exercise his
jaws, and we formed the habit of arranging our shoes on the mantelpiece
every night before retiring.
We exchanged the trap for some boxes of tacks, which are always "handy
to have in the house."
About this time our neighbors, the Crows, became possessed of a large
setter dog, by name Leo.
This dog was deficient in morality, and at once developed thieving
propensities.
Bruno soon understood that we did not want Leo to come to our house, nor
even into the yard; still, he personally formed a dog-friendship for
him. While this seemed at the time very strange to us, I have since
explained it to my own satisfaction.
I think Leo must have confided to Bruno the fact that he was not well
cared for by his owners.
Many people seem to think it is unnecessary to give a dog regular meals.
They think he ought to "pick up a living." The Crows seemed to have this
idea; so Bruno doubtless felt that Leo was not altogether to blame for
being a thief, and after fiercely driving him outside of our gate, he
would follow, and they would have romps and races until both were
exhausted.
Leo was the only real dog-friend Bruno ever had. All his other friends
were either humans or cats.
The crowds of dogs that sometimes go yelping and tearing through the
streets were to him objects of the loftiest scorn. From front window or
porch he would look down his nose at them, then turn, stepping high, to
march off and lie down in some remote corner where only the faintest
echoes of their din could reach him.
One evening, while Julius and I were at choir-practice, we heard
something that distressed me greatly. I felt that I could not stay, so
we slipped out and hurried home. As soon as we were inside of our own
door I threw myself into Julius's arms with childlike sobbing.
He tried to comfort me, but I could only hear my own heart-throbs. All
at once he exclaimed,--
"Look, Judith, look at Bruno!"
His tone was so strange, it penetrated even my grief. I raised my head
and there was Bruno, standing upright, his head against Julius's
shoulder, as close to me as he could get, his eyes full of tears, the
picture of woe.
"You see Bruno is crying too," said Julius.
As soon as Bruno saw me look up, he threw back his head and wagged his
tail as if to say,--
"Come now, that's better, much better."
My tears still fell, but they were no longer bitter. There was something
about the sympathy of that dumb creature which touched a chord not to be
reached by anything human. It was so unlooked for and so sincere.
It was wonderful how he entered into all our feelings. In those days I
was very much afraid of thunder-storms. In some subtle way Bruno divined
this and kept the closest watch for clouds. If the heavens began to be
overcast, he would go from window to window, noting developments, coming
to me every few minutes to look into my face and wag his tail
reassuringly.
When our fears were verified and the storm broke, he would come to rest
his head on my knee, wincing with me at the thunders and flashes. When
the worst was over, and big scattering drops showed the end of the storm
to be near, he would drop at my feet with a huge sigh of relief that
showed what a nervous strain he had been enduring.
He also discovered a strong aversion I had for spiders, and went about
killing every one he could find. Chancing to be at my side one day when
I dodged and exclaimed at the too familiar dartings of a wasp that was
flying around me, he from that time made it a rule to destroy flying
bugs of all kinds, often jumping high in the air to catch them.